“There was nothing that could be done to save the horse,” owner Rexroth was quoted as saying. “We summoned the best veterinarians around, and they agreed that this gallant runner would have to be put down for humane reasons. This is a tremendous loss to Willowdale, and to the racing and breeding industry, for we were convinced Uncle Francis would sire a succession of youngsters as talented as he was.”
Knowledgeable breeding experts responded with skepticism to this claim, for Uncle Francis-following his excellent racing career-had proved to be a disappointment as a sire. Once they’d hit the racetrack and failed to impress, the market value of his young horses had plummeted, as had that of Uncle Francis. He wasn’t unique in this sense, for not every good racehorse makes a good sire. But he was evidently unique in paying such a severely painful price for his progenitive inadequacies. Insured for $8,000,000, he was worth far more dead than alive. None of this was mentioned in the Journal story.
Reading the story while lying on his motel bed late that Saturday night, on the outskirts of a town one hundred ten miles from Willowdale Farm, the shorter man of the midnight duo cackled with delight.
“This sumbitch Rexroth is crookeder that we’d ever think to be, man,” he said appreciatively. He was talking to his partner and roommate. But Jud Repke was asleep and did not hear the words of Ronald Mortvedt.
Chapter 5
Doyle awoke in a mental haze. After battling his way toward consciousness, he realized he was on the old brown couch in the small living room of his furnished apartment. Vaguely, very mistily, he recalled awakening in the backseat of his car in the apartment building’s garage, pulling himself up the short flight of stairs to the elevator, later fumbling for long minutes with his front door lock.
As he struggled to recall the happenings of the night before, Doyle was aware of some pounding noises as he looked up at the crack in his ceiling, a fissure in the plaster that meandered like the Mississippi. Some of those sounds, he knew, were reverberating in his head, after-effects of the powerful sedative that had been so rudely administered the night before. Then, he realized, there were other sounds as well, evidently emanating from the other side of his front door. Doyle struggled to his feet, temporarily losing his balance as he did so, then staggered toward the source of the noise.
“Rock fucking bottom,” he said to himself, “that’s what I’ve hit.”
When he unchained the door, that assessment was immediately confirmed. On the threshold, badges displayed in raised wallets, stood a dark-complexioned man of medium height and a tall, brown-haired woman. The man, whose black hair came to a widow’s peak, wore a navy blue blazer, gray slacks, white shirt under a dark red tie. “Mr. Doyle,” he said, “my name is Damon Tirabassi. I’m an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. So is Ms. Engel, Karen Engel,” he said, nodding to the woman. She, too, had on a navy blue blazer. Her skirt was gray and her white blouse buttoned at the throat. Agent Engel’s green eyes appeared to reflect bemusement, if not sympathy, for Doyle’s obviously painful condition. She was as pretty as her partner was serious, Doyle noted.
“What time is it?” Doyle blearily managed. “And what do you want?”
“Eleven o’clock of the morning after,” Tirabassi answered, adding, “the morning after the night of your race-fixing payoff.”
Doyle took a grip on the door. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said, struggling to reconstruct his recent hours. Then it all came back to him like a cascade of mountain water: the footsteps in the garage, the arm around his neck and needle in his arm, the whispered sounds that he was absolutely sure he knew too well.
Maureen and E. D., those dirty bastards, Doyle thought. Heat rushed to his face as a tide of embarrassment swept over him. Goddam, they’d played him for a world-class sap. And what had he fallen into with these FBI agents? He shook his head, attempting to rattle some sensible thoughts into place. Then he motioned the two of them inside and closed the door.
“Mr. Doyle, how about a cup of coffee?” Karen asked, a hint of kindness in her low voice. “Then we can sit down and discuss your situation.”
“Why not?” Doyle replied, wondering what kind of situation this might be. Rock fucking below bottom, maybe. He thought about calling a lawyer. The problem was, the only lawyer he had ever employed was Dave Rutchik, who had represented him in his two divorce proceedings. Doyle got skinned both times, and after his parting from Erma had fired Rutchik, telling him “I’d rather be represented by a junior bail bondsman than another night school lawyer like you.” Doyle dismissed any thought of legal advice for the time being.
The three of them went into the tiny kitchen of Doyle’s three-room furnished apartment, decorated in a theme of contemporary haphazard. The apartment had a small bedroom; a living room that contained the couch, armchair, bookshelves, and a desk that fronted the north-facing windows; and the kitchen, whose stove was spotless from not having been used except for boiling water since Doyle had taken up residence. Also unchanged was the large poster of Thelonius Monk left behind by the previous tenant, a local jazz pianist currently working out of town. Doyle was an avid jazz fan, and he also liked the expression on Monk’s slyly knowing face.
Tirabassi and Engel sat at the small table as Doyle boiled water, then filled cups with instant coffee. Even this small effort seemed to exhaust him; whatever E. D. and Maureen had doped him up with, its residual effects were strong. Doyle needed a day on the couch, then a night at the gym, maybe including a stint in the sauna, to work all this out of his system.
The agents broke their silence as Karen asked, “Do you have any cream? Or milk?”
Doyle started to rise, but she moved before him to the refrigerator. After peering inside, she said, “Are you culturing specimens for a laboratory?” Doyle remembered the several carryout items he had intended to either reheat or remove, items that continued to lurk on his refrigerator shelves.
“The milk is toward the back,” Doyle said. “I don’t take it with coffee. I hardly ever use milk,” he added weakly. Karen sniffed at the quart carton. “No kidding,” she said. “You should throw this out.” Without waiting for a reply, she did so.
Doyle put his elbows on the table, resting his head in his hands. Then he said, “When you’re all done critiquing my housekeeping, could one of you maybe get around to where you tell me what business you think you have with me?”
Though his head was still pounding, the coffee was working to help clear Doyle’s mind. He began to further size up his uninvited visitors.
Tirabassi appeared to be close to Doyle’s age and was of similar medium build. His forehead was furrowed with worry lines. He reminded Doyle of Father DiCastri, the assistant pastor at the parish of his boyhood, a man so laden with concern for his fellow man that his rare smiles were widely reported by parishioners whenever they appeared.
The woman, Karen, was another, decidedly different story, in Doyle’s grudgingly admiring estimation. With her tall, athletic figure, attractively wide-set eyes, and open expression-one that suggested she was not going to be as quick to judge Jack Doyle as was her partner-Karen sat in pleasant contrast to Tirabassi, who impatiently tapped two fingers of his right hand on the table as he coldly regarded his host.
The woman was the first to speak.
“We’re here, Mr. Doyle, as a result of information we received suggesting your involvement in a fixed horse race.” She paused, allowing time for that to sink in.